Mercy was a schoolyard word,
the key unlocking the grip of the bully,
something I saw often enough
but normally (neatly, nimbly)
dodged myself. God did thus
himself a disservice, putting
his good word first in the
mouth of the enemy who demanded it –
of his victim no less.
And this was part of a larger pattern,
I saw, God betting on the wrong horse,
dumping his treasures in the mud,
thinking all-screwed-up might make
the good, the true and the beautiful
Oh I’ll admit:
I never see the truth better
than when I’m wrong
or love purity more
than when I’ve sinned.
So maybe this is just the way.
Why must dark
dress up our day?
Who would be verticaling
what horizontal was,
namely this track,
hooking a chain to the train
so we won’t fall
I don’t watch zombie shows but know something about what
emerges from thy dank wood in the boonies, Lord –
have as need be hid behind equal trees,
backing and circling ever outward, dodging
hands and cool blank eyes, upward yes
into the air, “free” of it all, now, over there.
But you, wide and ghostly, neither leave nor solve
but hang, steady as the mist, as drops on ferns,
spores of the underside, your heart
rotting out the log. Till when? – we change?
Your breath is gone, but hold it still.
For we’ll not, ever, no matter what we’ve got,
(hell if we will)